


Inside Her Head

by BabySterekinaTrenchCoat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Blood and Violence, Character Study, Forced Sterilization, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, a bit - Freeform, but just in case, from her point of view, natasha's dream/memory/halluctination, nothing is really graphic, some descriptions of blood and violence, sort of, super short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabySterekinaTrenchCoat/pseuds/BabySterekinaTrenchCoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene fades around me, morphs into something else, something worse. The halls distant from memory are too real, too familiar. Those wood floors I’d walked so many times, danced upon until my bones splintered. “He’ll break them.” He wants to.</p>
<p>Inside Natasha's mind as she's sent back to memories of The Red Room and questions her place with the Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Her Head

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to do this scene from Natasha's POV, get inside her head, and do my own interpretation of what she was going through while in that hallucination/dream/memory sequence. I also put in what I think would've been more realistic for her to remember to make her question her identity, her place with the Avengers, and make her think of herself as a monster. Hope you enjoy! Let me know if I need to add anymore warnings or if there's anything I need to fix. This is un-edited, so if you catch something please let me know. :)

Everything is in chaos. Bursts of explosions, bodies and arrows flying, the studied ease of fighting flowing through my body, and the pull, click, jerk of the gun in my hand. It’s a strange kind of familiar; the danger, the movement, the fight. Then it’s not. There’s a moment and then everything’s muffled. The scene fades around me, morphs into something else, something worse. The halls distant from memory are too real, too familiar. Those wood floors I’d walked so many times, danced upon until my bones splintered. “He’ll break them.” He wants to.

“Again. Again.” It’s not perfect, you can’t stop until it’s perfect. I can’t be here. These walls haven’t held me in so many years. Here, I was nothing; a name with no meaning, no place in the world. Nothing but metal ore, melted down and reformed, and forged into a weapon. No worth, no meaning, no purpose, not yet; you have to earn that. Earn it in pain, earn it in bones broken, in blood, in body count. Train, learn, perform, execute, earn a place in this world. Fight to lose your humanity. The Red Room, stained deep with the blood of both innocent and assassin, instrument and victim, success and failure; tainted with the aura of tortured souls. Every skill that I’ve known to make me something was learned here: the grace and acrobatics of dance, the aim of a gun, the nuance of hand to hand, the steady, unflinching mind to kill. So many scars formed here, pieces of humanity and mind lost, choices taken away. Right hand, two shots, head. Left hand, two shots, heart. Right hand, one shot, leg. Twirl, pointe, kick, dodge, spin, arabesque, down elbow to floating ribs, déboulé, dodge, backflip, sweeping leg, shoulder dislocation, piqué, fouetté. It all moves together. Knives and leotards, death and dance. Death is a dance, assassination an art, this prison a home, cold and poisoned. 

Why am I here? The worst moment of my life occurred here. So many opportunities taken away. The opportunity of children, a sacrifice none of chose to make, a requirement we all lived with, but so much more than that. The opportunity of innocence, torn away before the concept fully grasped. The opportunity of an untainted soul, an unbroken mind, of blood free hands. This was where they made me. Made me into all I knew to be, all I never wish to know again. The monster I became when they had me look down at my kneeling classmate and pull the trigger. The broken I became when they pulled the cover away from her face, my only friend’s ashen face, her blood leaking into the wood grain. I can’t be here. I’m not here. I can’t be that again. I’m suppose to be different now, better. I’m a better person now, a savior, an Avenger. Aren’t I? They say monsters aren’t born, they’re made, but what happens when someone is born to those that would turn them into razor teeth and poison kisses? Those who would then unleash their creation on the world and watch both it and the horror they’ve made burn. I’m better…aren’t I? Am I? Will I ever be what I strive for? Can I? I’ve called myself a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, an Avenger, someone who helps, but how is that possible for me? A shield for justice and peace? A weapon, an instrument used for any other purpose than it’s original inception is damned to have fault. How could I ever think I could be more than what they made me? What they left me. It’s all I’ll ever be. A broken, bloodied monster.


End file.
